


History's Mark

by TheDweeb



Series: FFXIVWrite2018 [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Elezen (Final Fantasy XIV), Gen, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2018, ishgard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 18:31:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18946477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDweeb/pseuds/TheDweeb
Summary: Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but some people would never forget. It was none of his business, yet he found himself wishing he could do something. He could not.





	History's Mark

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 8 of FFXIVWrite2018

A tired sigh escaped his lips, the smoke of his breath curling from his lips. Clementain had lived in Ul’dah much too long to endure the biting cold that had settled into Ishgard; like a sickness filling the lungs. The people had adapted well as they could, considering Coerthas, while still prone to more chill than the Shroud, had once boasted of a more temperate clime. He had done his best to adapt, too, but not even the thickest wool coat could keep him from shivering, and he spat out a curse. His chocobo echoed the sentiment with a sad, low whistle.

“My apologies, Simoune,” he cooed gently as he rubbed her neck. “Once we take care of this Ixal problem, you will have the finest feed and shelter Camp Dragonhead has to offer.”

Another whistle, this one higher pitched in what could be called cheer, answered his words which made him chuckle. A gentle pat to Simoune’s neck produced a happy wark and set her pace to something less sluggish. Though she was outfitted in the warmest barding money could buy she was very much a bird accustomed to warmer temperatures like her rider. Her zeal required tempering, however, as a jagged line of black caught Clementain’s eye, and he quickly tugged the reins to his right. He had almost forgotten about the ravines.

Though there were two such formations in the central highlands of Coerthas only one of them had earned the colorful title of the Witchdrop. Ishgardians, in all their religious zeal, abhorred any who would ally themselves with the Dravanians they had waged war against for a millennium. According to the locals, the Witchdrop was a place utilized by the Inquisitors of the Holy See to determine the innocence of one accused of heresy. Were the accused, pushed from the top of the ravine, to take take wing as a dragon then they were clearly a heretic. Those that were innocent were left a stain on the ground, and if the Ishgardians had wondered why so many voidsent had begun to take up residence in such a gruesome place then they were stupider than Clem already thought them to be.

Of course, the place had not been used in years–barring an incident involving a disguised heretic, a noble House’s son, and the up-and-coming Warrior of Light–and the Dragonsong War had come to an end, but he still found his lip curling in disgust as he passed the place by, and in his haste to be gone he almost missed the lone woman standing near the edge. He did not know her name or her story, but he could imagine one and it would likely be near enough to the truth. A friend, family member, or lover was accused of heresy and had been broken and bled to prove that the accusations against them were false. Likely to line the pockets or further the political machinations of some scheming noble, or perhaps some member of the clergy had yet to meet their quota. Either way, they were gone while she was still there.

A feeling of unease washed over him the more he watched her. She had not moved save for the wind carding through her hair and swaying her skirts, but she clearly was there with a purpose. As always, he told himself to leave well enough alone. He had a job to do and she was not his problem. When she stepped forward, however, he found himself turning Simoune and ready to leap from the saddle. Seeing her take a knee and raise her hands in prayer, however, stilled him and he huffed out another sigh, sending more cold-smoke from his nostrils like an annoyed dragon. One day he would learn, he supposed, but as he turned Simoune quietly back onto the path toward Natalan he surmised that one day would not be quite so soon.


End file.
